


Platter

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, Face-Sitting, Female Thranduil, Ficlet, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 11:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin attempts to get into Queen Thranduil’s good graces via his powerful mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Platter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mozzarella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for Mozzarella’s “Thorin/fem!Thranduil with Thranduil trying Thorin down and riding his face” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thorin grunts but doesn’t struggle as she wraps his wrist in rope, his ankles already secured. There’s a long stretch between his bared feet and her bedposts, dwarves being so much shorter than elves, but he’s thick enough to still take up a satisfying amount of space. He lets her stroll around the bed to tie his last wrist in place. Though the guards are gone, surely he knows that they wait just outside, and even were he to best her in hand-to-hand, he’d never make it very far. 

And this was his suggestion, after all. He tests his bonds when he’s finished, fisting his meaty fingers into his palms and tugging at the silken Elven rope holding him taut. He eyes her latest knot, then turns his face to hers and mutters, “This isn’t what I had in mind.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Thranduil muses, “You said you could seduce me into an understanding—is this not what you want?”

“I didn’t expect to be tied down.” Indeed, his stern lips are in a frown beneath the dark scruff of his mustache, his eyes as intense as ever. She has to wonder if he’s lying—he should know there is no trust between them, not even with this offer on the table. When he makes no effort to fight or further complain, Thranduil steps out of her own slippers. 

She purrs, “Surely a king, so confident in his prowess such as yourself, can please a woman enough without the use of his limbs.” She puts one knee on the bed, ready to slip onto it, and she doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger down her slender frame. How dwarves settle for one another, hairy and stout and fat and _nothing_ like elves as they are, Thranduil will never know. But for someone that fits all those descriptions, Thranduil will still admit that Thorin is, in his own way, somewhat handsome. 

She wouldn’t do this if his body didn’t excite her. She climbs onto the edge of her mattress, risen high off the floor, and Thorin licks his lips to growl, “Once you’ve had my tongue inside you, you’ll never defy me again.”

She chuckles. Dwarves can be foolish and over-proud, but this one’s conviction amuses her, and she wouldn’t mind a good time. It’s difficult to find men of her status to play with. Thorin Oakenshield is far from ideal, but he is a rugged, strong, attractive _king_ , so she crawls towards the head of the bed, where his skull is nestled in her pillows. 

She throws one leg over him, hiking up her robes to reveal creamy, lightly textured thighs, and sits on his chest. She already likes the feel of his tight pecs beneath her, broad and hard. The rest of his clothes are still on, though perhaps, if his skills are compelling enough, that will change. To his credit, he looks only at her face while she bundles her light silver robes around her waist and tosses all of her pale hair back over her shoulders. 

Then she lifts up again, her knees shifting up over his arms, and she hovers over her his face. There’s a pause where she gives him a moment to reconsider, though she’s well aware of the stubbornness of dwarves. Thorin turns to chastely kiss her thigh in a mockery of affection. She dips one hand to cup his cheek, holding him in place, and then she slowly lowers down, heedless of her weight. He bragged enough about his strong jaw. What he should’ve told her of instead is the scratch of his beard, short but unruly, tickling her soft skin as she flattens it. Like most elves, she’s hairless, and that only serves to contrast his raw mess. It’s clear that it hasn’t been trimmed in far too long; it’s tangled and uneven, and it makes her squirm in place.

When she slides up too far, his large nose presses against the bud of her clit, and with a sharp intake of breath, Thranduil settles back, trying to be still. She wants to enjoy this, of course, but not _too_ much—Thorin doesn’t need his head any bigger. So she sits still, trying to be stoic, even though she has a man strapped to her bed with his face in her pussy. 

She can feel it when he opens his mouth. His hot air ghosts over her, and his large tongue laps against the bottom of her slit, just testing, teasing. Then he presses in, just a little, before running up the seam, right up to her clit, where he swirls his tongue around, only to drag down again. 

On the next journey up, he wriggles in between her folds, the tip grazing her easily. It feels vaguely disgusting, having his saliva soak her body, but Thranduil knows the wetness isn’t all him. She’s always had a particularly responsive channel. He seems to know how to coax it out of her, despite all her doubts. She watches him while he works, though his eyes are now half lidded and focused on her lap. Her hand stays on his face, albeit higher, her delicate fingers subconsciously weaving into his hair. The other she uses to hold her robes up—she wants to admire the view. 

She can see the muscles in his cheeks flex from the stretch of his jaw as his tongue moves, flowing across her pussy in wild patterns, up and down again, out before in a little more, until he’s explored every crevice of her folds, her entrance dilating open around him. He tilts his head ever so slightly to graze his teeth along one lip, then the other, and he nibbles at the hanging flesh in the middle, something that makes her have to grit her teeth and toss back her head. Her body tenses, thrumming with pleasure from each little tug he gives her, nipping and holding hostage different sections of her now slick pussy. Her body wants to arch, her throat wants to moan, but she holds them both back, until he bites her hard enough to make her yelp, and then she fists her fingers in his hair, having half a mind to slap him. 

She glares at him instead, catching a flicker of a smirk across his eyes. He continues to massage her with his mouth at a steady pace but increasing vigor, employing many tricks that leave her wanting to writhe. He _is_ good. It does feel _delightful_. She hasn’t been eaten out like this in a long, long time, and it’s so hard to find men who properly worship their meals, but Thorin pulls out all the stops, until Thranduil can’t help herself—her hips buck against his face. He splutters once, and that gives her a sick satisfaction, so she does it again, letting herself lightly grind into him. But he only adapts, licking her all the more fiercely, nuzzling his face up against her to cause friction of his own. 

Then he curls his tongue and _pushes_ , and she can feel it coaxing at the hole inside her, the right one on his first try, and Thranduil fails to stifle her gasp. Her body trembles, opening for him, and he pushes up, his long, thick tongue filling her like a snake. It’s so much _wetter_ , softer and more forgiving than a cock, but he extends it long enough to rival that girth. His face tilts up as he buries his chin between her legs, and the rest of his mouth sucks at her entrance. Thorin twists inside her, probing around for the perfect spots to stroke, and then he’s pulling back, and it takes everything Thranduil has not to whimper. 

But he stabs back into her a second later, retracting and expanding, starting to fuck her in hard, full thrusts of his massive tongue. The sensation is absolutely exquisite—he’s stimulating so many different parts of her at once. She almost wishes she’d left his hands untied so he could caress _more_ of her, run his thick fingers up the stretch-patterned expanse of her thighs and the rise of her stomach, up to squeeze her breasts. She almost touches them herself, but doesn’t want to let go of him or let her robe fall and cover his face. He does enough as it is. He fucks her like a champion, until she’s bouncing up and down, unable to resist. She rides him like a horse, driving herself down onto his talented tongue as hard as she can. 

She didn’t think she’d come from this alone. She thought she’d have a good time and send him away, finishing herself off with her fingers, but now she can’t imagine sending him off before she’s come—she’s so _close_. He makes it so easy. His teeth and tongue and lips are vicious, the heat and suction too much to bear. And then his burning gaze flickers up to her, and she doesn’t stand a chance. She tugs at his hair, wanting to punish him for his insolence, for daring to be so good at this, make her lose control so easily, but it only makes him growl into her pussy and fuck her all the harder. He scrapes his teeth roughly over her clit and pulls his tongue back to crush it, and Thranduil arches forward, screaming her release. Her body burns to the ends, her mind going white in a flood of weightless bliss—she nearly topples off him in a quivering mess. The orgasm is easily one of the best she’s had in decades, and she doesn’t stop for a heartbeat, just keeps going, grinding it all out against Thorin Oakenshield’s handsome face. 

Even as she’s slowly coming down, her hips slow but don’t stop. She can hear him lewdly sucking up her juices, his tongue still swiping around to catch every bit of it he can. She looks down at him, past the heave of her breasts, her heart beating hard in her chest. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to look at his mouth the same way again, no matter what hateful nonsense comes out of it. 

Finally, she lifts up, shifting back to sit on his chest. His beard is slick with her release and dripping saliva, and his lips are red, open as he pants for air. After a moment of mutual silence, he licks his lips crudely and asks, “Want an encore?”

Thranduil, intrigued but not willing to show it, glances over her shoulder. There’s a sizeable bulge in his trousers, big enough that she can’t miss it: her eyes are draw right to the prize. Considering, she reaches over, palming it lightly. He groans, and she finds she enjoys the sound. Elves have considerable stamina. She could go again.

And, perhaps, she might actually like him for an ally. Unfortunately, Thorin doesn’t seem like the sort to willingly submit himself in chains forever. 

Thranduil slips off his body. She lowers down to the mattress on her side, admitting, “Perhaps we can talk,” while her fingers deftly unfasten his belt, not intent on ‘talking’ at all.


End file.
